


A Very Damp, Very Boring Christmas

by miss_nettles_wife



Category: The Doctor Blake Mysteries
Genre: Dancing, F/M, Getting Together, Mistletoe, missing scene (ish), rain storm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:07:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21936454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_nettles_wife/pseuds/miss_nettles_wife
Summary: Christmas, 1959. Lucien and Jean are in Adelaide, and Charlie and Mattie thought they would be with their loved ones too. Except they're at the Blake house. So, maybe they are. (TDBM Secret Santa '19 gift for misslillianelliot)
Relationships: Charlie Davis/Mattie O'Brien, Lucien Blake/Jean Beazley (background)
Kudos: 4





	A Very Damp, Very Boring Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Did I luck out this year with prompt or what?! Happy Christmas to you, misslillianeelliot. I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it. I hope to all of you reading this that we're all still here next year, enjoying this show and the characters!

Over the years, Mattie had been too some rotten Christmases. That was one of the things about having a father who was in politics. Well, aside from the time that he had to spend networking and social climbing. She was forced to attend parties that didn’t interest her since she turned about thirteen. 

In that time she’d shaken hands and said polite hellos. She’d exchanged gifts and talked to the other, usually younger, children around the place. She’d wish it was still morning. She and her parents were opening their gifts in the living room and spending time together as a family. Not here, in this stuffy room eating gross food off fine China. 

But none of those boring parties could hold a candle to how miserable Christmas 1959 was turning out to be. 

For one, neither she nor Charlie had been expecting to still be here. Charlie was planning to go back to his family home. Be with his gaggle of brothers. She was planning to return to her parent's house where they had assured her they would make up a guest room. That hadn’t happened. 

Neither of them had been able to get the needed time off to take the trip back to Melbourne, for starters. So they were both working on Christmas Day. Crime didn’t sleep, and neither did injury. If that had been it, she was pretty sure that they might have been able to salvage this year. Jean would have made gingerbread. Or there would be a large tree decorated with shiny glass baubles. But alas, Jean wasn’t here either. She was in Adelaide with Doctor Blake and her family. Her real family. 

There was neither hide nor hair of Christmas spirit in the house. Bar a single string of tinsel strung up on a windowsill hung up by Charlie. Oh, and the sprig of mistletoe she’d put in the living room. No smell of gingerbread. No pavlova stacked with fruit. No plum pudding, not even a half-hearted Christmas tune; or a tree on which to hang decorations. 

And to top it all off, it was raining. 

Nay, it was storming. Summer storms were the norm of course but this seemed almost otherworldly in its fury. Outside, the sky was a sort of green-grey, the sun trying to shine through the thick clouds and rain. Every so often a huge boom of thunder would shake the foundations of the house. The radio towers were out so it wasn’t like she could even listen to the radio.  
  
Not in the mood to try and find some Christmas Cheer, she spent the night where she spent pretty much every night. Sitting at the table with her social work textbooks. Signs of drug abuse swirled on the page, and her mind drifted away as soon as she managed to get it within sight of the work. Looking out the window at the soaked backyard; the trees shook with fervor. As if they were praising some God that was invisible to humankind. 

She thought about Charlie, and if he was going to have to drive home in this. What a storm to be caught in. Things had been weird with him lately. Things were always weird with Charlie but... weirder than usual. She couldn’t stop thinking about the night that Lucien woke them both up at three in the morning. 

Mattie hadn’t known what she was looking for when she went up the stairs and to his room. A little company, or perhaps a listening ear. And what she'd found that the room itself was not all that different to when Danny lived there. She’d gone to great lengths to make her room feel like home. Brought her bedspread, had books and pictures and her clothes...Not to mention her makeup. But not Charlie. His room was all but bare of personal touches. Some Brylcreem on his desk with a comb. A framed photo of his family sitting on his nightstand. Three suitcases stacked one on top of the other atop the closed wardrobe. 

And him. Sitting on his bed, wearing his pajamas and reading a copy of Barbara Baynton’s Bush Studies. They spoke for a long time. long enough for her to fall asleep, lying on her back staring up at the roof. For him to fall asleep with his finger still marking the place he’d stopped reading. He’d managed to surprise her, being articulate, and sensible. With a good memory. He remembered things that she’d told him months ago that no one else seemed to be bothered to. 

Of course, they spoke about Lucien. They were both worried about him, and how he was going to cope without Jean around. It seemed like they were tied by the waist. They needed one another. Charlie even mentioned his father, and how he’d known Munro. Even confessed that now he’d done some thinking he recognized the man from the funeral. They had a shared concern about their fathers, and what it might mean to disappoint them. It seemed to go in different directions. Mattie already knew she probably had, but Charlie was worried about if he would. 

It felt good. To get that all out in the open. To share it with someone. But it had made things kind of weird. 

She let her textbook swim back into focus and tried to read it but it wouldn’t penetrate her mind. But something did, and it was a thump thump thumping at the door followed by -

“Mattie?” 

Oh, damn. Charlie must be outside. She jumped to her feet and hurried to let him in. When Lucien got back she was going to force him to have another set of keys cut. She was sick of being woken up at God only knows what hour to let him in. She swung the door open, and Charlie, looking very much like a wet rat, swept inside. 

“Jesus, did you walk here from the station?” She asked as he stood in the foyer, dripping water onto the rugs. 

“No?” He asked more than answered. He started shrugging out of his wet jacket, dropping his equally wet duffle bag onto the floor. “Just from Bill’s car to the house.” 

“Does he want to come in for some tea?” She asked, even though she didn’t want him here. He gave her...A bad feeling. As far as cops in this town went she’d much rather have Charlie on the case than him. 

“No, no, he wants to get home and listen to the cricket. I told him he’s crazy to be using a radio in weather like this but...” He trailed off, shrugging. He was in plain clothes, so he must have been planning to catch the bus. She shivered at the idea of walking home from the bus stop in weather like this. Reaching inside his plaid printed coat, he produced a paper-wrapped parcel. After a moment, he offered it to her. 

“Merry Christmas.” He said, as she took it from him. It felt soft inside the brown paper it was wrapped in, and it was warm from being close up against his body. 

“Thank you.” She was surprised he’d even thought about it. She’d assumed that they were silently agreeing not to celebrate Christmas this year. “I didn’t get you anything, though.” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Charlie said, and he managed to sound cheerful even though his face was white as a ghost. “It’s not about getting gifts, it’s about giving them.” Still holding the parcel, she looked back up to him. 

“Go have a warm shower before you catch hypothermia. I’ll make you a warm drink.” Charlie raised his eyebrows, but she ushered him up the stairs. After making her way to the kitchen, she then glanced back at the large wet splotches on the rugs. Well, there was nothing to be done about it now, and it wasn’t like he’d dragged any mud into the house. Those rugs were older than her; they’d survive a little water. 

She looked out the window, it was hard to imagine that five hours ago it had been over thirty-five degrees. That was what an Australian summer was like. She imagined it would be at least twenty-eight by the time they got to bed. She grabbed the tin of coca from the shelf above the stove and turned it around in her hands. There were no instructions on the tin. Oh well, it couldn’t be more difficult than a couple of spoonfuls of powder into a cup of hot water and milk right? Well, she hoped that was the case. She filled the kettle with water and set it on the stove, erring away from the electric kettle. As childish as it was, she was scared of being shocked through their electric appliances in the storm. 

When she was a little girl, she read a story about a man who answered the phone in a storm and was blown to high heaven. It upset her for weeks, despite her parent's best efforts to assure her that it wouldn't happen in real life. Even so, the fear lingered on. 

Anyway, she wasn’t expecting any phone calls. She’d called her parents earlier in the day, around lunch. Spoken to her mother for a while, before taking a call from Jean a bit later. Seemed as though they were having a good time in Adelaide. She wanted to let them know that since she wasn’t there to buy the food they shouldn’t pay any rent for the time they were gone. It was nice of her to be thinking about them. She asked if they had big plans for Christmas since they were spending it at home. She lied and said that they were having some friends over for drinks. If she knew Mattie was telling a lie; she didn’t mention it. To top it all off, she also wanted to know if she’d gotten any Christmas cards, and she had. A huge stack of them; all unopened. Didn’t feel right, going through someone else's mail. And, as Charlie had reminded her it was also a crime. 

The kettle sounded, and she tipped hot water from the kettle to the cup. She added two spoons of cocoa powder to the drink, followed by a small dash of milk. She picked up the parcel and shifted it around in her hands trying to figure out what it was. Perhaps a towel? She didn’t think Charlie was equipped enough to buy something like a dress. But, he was also not quite boring enough to buy socks. Maybe on Boxing day, she’d find him a pair of black dress socks. He was always complaining about never having enough. 

Speaking off, he emerged finally, looking a lot more warmed up than when he got home. He’s opted out of any Christmas attire, instead opting for a pair of plain pants and a cream coloured shirt. A few stray drops of water had caught on the shoulders of his shirt, darkening the fabric. At least there was a bit of colour in his cheeks now, she thought as he took his seat opposite her.   
“Thanks for the drink.” He said, then took a sip of coca. His face screwed up and he set it down quickly. 

“Is the milk off?” She asked, concerned. She didn’t want him to think she was feeding him spoiled food. Charlie shook his head no, and then said- 

“It’s so bitter!” 

“Bitter?” 

“Did...Did you use coca powder in here?” 

“Yes? What was I meant to use?” She asked, suddenly aware that her ineptitude in the kitchen was showing. 

“Chocolate powder.”

“Isn’t that what coca powder is?” 

“Sure, with milk and sugar.” He said, before passing it to her. “You have a sip.” She did and well. He was right. It was bitter. She looked into the drink then back up at him. He almost looked like he was smiling at her. “You don’t spend much time in the kitchen, do you?” 

“No. Not really. My parents have a cook.” She felt inclined to defend herself and her terrible hot chocolate. Knowing Charlie’s supposed prowess in the kitchen made her self conscious. 

“Ah, that might explain it.” Standing, he put her drink in the stove and retrieved a tin of chocolate powder from the cupboard. She could see that it had instructions on the side. “You need this one, in the future.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Expecting some kind of admonishment she looked at him expectantly. He put it away and then opened the fridge, peering inside. Maybe he was just being a gentleman. 

“Have you eaten?” 

“I had a sausage roll at the Hospital for lunch.” But that was hardly a substantive meal and now he’d mentioned it she was a bit on the hungry side. Charlie frowned at the contents like they’d offended him, and then looked over at her. 

“I don’t think we’ve been keeping up to date with the shopping.” 

“How bad is it?” 

“Well, we can make an omelet, or toad in a hole if you prefer that.” 

“I’ve never had toad in a hole.” She admitted, but she didn’t particularly like the sound of it. She hated toads, hated the look of them and especially hated the sounds that they made. When she was little, their home had backed onto bushland, and this one toad would call out at all hours of the night. Well, until her father set the gardener on it, of course. 

“It’s toast but with an egg in the center of the bread.” 

“Like French toast?” 

“Fried egg.”

“I think we should make an omelet.” She said, suspicious he was having her on. 

“Your choice.” He emerged, holding the butter, a block of cheese and the eggs. “Not much by the way of fix-ins, I’m afraid.” 

“I’m sure it’ll be fine if your potatoes are anything to go by.” He scoffed and started cracking eggs into a bowl from cupboard above him. She noticed that he tapped them on the counter rather than the side of the bowl as she would have. Interesting, maybe she’d ask him about that later. Or maybe Jean would know the answer. At any rate, he disposed of the empty shells in the sink.

“What? I heard Lucien compliment them.” 

“He only said that to get Jean off his back, they’re not special potatoes.” 

“Well, I didn’t see what was so special about them at the time.” 

“But you know what is special? My mother’s apple pie. Someday, you’ll have to let me make it for you.” 

“Yeah?” She leaned back in her chair, “Will you take me on a picnic as well?” He hesitated and then said - 

“I’m sure something could be arranged, if you’d like.” 

“I might like that.” She said and picked up the cheese block and the grater. “But maybe in spring.” 

“Spring is a beautiful time of year.” Charlie paused, and then took her grated cheese to add to his mix, “Almost as beautiful as you are.” 

“That’s gotta be the cheesiest line I’ve ever heard.” She laughed, and leaned against his shoulder as he gave the mix one last firm stir, “Almost as cheesy as this omelet.” 

“Well, I do try.” He said, as the eggs sizzled in the pan. That was a lie, she was pretty sure Charlie had never told a joke in his life. Either way, he sounded like he was smiling, and that was a sound she wanted to hear more of. “You want to get some plates for us?” 

She broke away from him to find them plates, and he served up the eggs and followed her to the table. This time, rather than across, she sat next to him. The table was plenty big enough for two per side but she sat closer than she should have, and let her leg rest against his. It was not decent, but he didn’t push her away and that was a good start. 

“You didn’t open your gift.” He said, around a mouth full of egg. 

“I thought you’d want to be here. You know, so you can see the look on my face.” 

“Oh, well, you didn’t need to do that it’s your gift.” 

“I’ll open it when we’re done.” She suggested and looked down at their exciting Christmas dinner. “We should say grace or something.” Charlie swallowed and blushed when he realized that he’d started without her. 

“Uh, do you know any?” 

“You’re Catholic but you don’t know how to say Grace?” 

“I’m not a very good Catholic.” 

“Well, it’s still Christmas and I think we should say something.” She took hold of his hand, it was cool to the touch and calloused. For a moment, she imagined it touching her face instead. "Um, Dear Lord we thank you for this meal we are about to eat. Thank you for sending your only son to Earth for us, and thank you for another great year. Amen. How was that?" 

"Fine, I guess." Charlie was already starting to eat again. She supposed that prayers were not high on his list of important things. To be honest, they weren't at the top of hers either. Her mother always said that they were good Christians. She still wasn’t sure where she fell on the matter of religion. Oh well, Christmas didn’t have to be about religion. It could be about eating good food and spending it with loved ones. 

...Neither of which she was doing this year. 

"This is the worst Christmas ever." She sighed and took a bite out of eggs. They were nothing special, eggs and some cheese. It served to only make her feel more depressed about how the holidays were turning out. At least Charlie was here to commiserate with. 

“Nah, the worst Christmas ever was the one Ray, Mikey and I spent with Aunt Gertie the year David was born.” He informed her, “Just terrible.” Or not. 

“What did Aunt Gertie do that was so terrible?” She asked, she was glad he was opening up to her, even a little. She felt like she’d poured her whole heart out to him when Blake was stomping around, missing Jean. He hardly told her a thing. But now she knew he had an Aunt Gertie. 

“Well for starters we weren’t allowed to make any noise. Then we had to listen to her go on and on about her husband left her and won't get a divorce because she’s Catholic. Then she’d go on a rant about how he took her chances to have children. Followed by how now Shirley was widowed maybe she could adopt one of us. I spent the whole night trying to convince Mikey ‘n Ray that Mum would never give us away. And her chicken was so dry it was practically inedible.” 

“That’s heavy for a couple of kids.” 

“Well, the husband, Uncle Ron, got back with her. So I guess she got her happy ending. If you can call it happy.” 

“You’re right, that is the worst Christmas.” 

“What was your worst Christmas?” He used his fork to chase a piece of cheese around hid plate, but his eyes were on her. They were grey-blue, but affection filled and warm, unlike his hands. 

“Jeez, that’d be a toss-up between boring party where my Mother got drunk and spilled red wine all over the lovely dress of the host... Or the year my father pointed out the young man that he thought might make a nice future husband for me.” 

“Oh.” Charlie said, voice flat, “So he’s got someone picked out for you?” 

“Well, I think it’s more of an informal thing.” She said, “Anyway, who cares about some stuffy boy? I’m capable of making up my mind about who I’ll marry, if and when I choose to marry them.” 

“Yeah.” He said, and then set his fork down, his mood seeming somber. 

“Why? Were you planning on asking me?” She meant it as a joke, really and truly, but well. She also kind of didn’t. She certainly had no plans on marrying Keith Grafton, or Charlie.

“And if I was?” He asked, as she swallowed her last mouthful of egg. 

“I’d ask you to take me out to dinner first.” She replied, and tried to smile, but wasn’t quite able. There was a loud trumpet sound coming from the living room, and they both jumped slightly. Charlie’s fork clattered onto the ground, and they both took a moment to breathe. Mattie laughed and then sat back in her chair, looking at Charlie. His mouth was twitching up into a smile. 

“Guess the radio is back.” 

“Storm must be almost over.” He replied, and Mattie stood, taking his hand. 

“Open your present.” Charlie said, picking it up, and tossing it to her, “It’s Christmas.” Using her pointer nail, she tried to peel the sticking tape away from the brown paper, making Charlie blanche. 

“You don’t save the paper?” She asked, 

“I come from a house with five boys, what do you think?” 

Finally, she opened the paper, and revealed...A scarf. It was printed with a large blue and white houndstooth pattern, she glanced up at him. 

“It’s lovely.” Was all that she could say because it was. Her mind began to construct an outfit around it right away. The pink and blue diagonal print dress, a blue cardigan, a blue headband - 

“You said you wanted a scarf to go with your pink and blue dress, the one with the stripes.” 

“You remembered?” 

“Well, yeah.” 

Even though it didn’t go with the orange blouse she was wearing, she pulled it around her neck and tied it. 

“How does it look?” 

“Lovely. You look...Lovely.” 

“Dance with me.” It came out before she could stop it, but now she’d said it, it felt like a good idea. Christmas was not turning out well, but this night still could. 

“I don’t know how.” 

“You don’t know how to dance?” 

“I never learned.” 

“All the more reason why you should. I’ll teach you.” Not to imply that she’d ever had any prowess at dancing, of course. She’d taken lessons as a child, but most of the sweaty-palmed waltz had been spent standing on the boy's toes. And wishing she was anywhere else other than dancing class, naturally. 

“You’ll teach me.” He sounded disbelieving and she had half a mind to be insulted but knew he was right to be suspicious of her dancing skills. 

“How hard can it be? And what do you have to lose?” 

“My dignity? My self-respect?” She reached out and took his hand, pulling him up. He let her lead him to the living room where there was more space. He gave one more token protest, but let her turn the radio down a bit, and then take hold of his hands. 

“Put this one on my waist.” He did so, and she put her hand on his arm. “Now hold my hand.” 

“Uh, okay.” 

“No, the other way. Yeah.” 

“How do we move?” 

“Well, I usually just shuffle in a sort of square shape and hope my partner would pick up on it.” 

“I thought you were meant to be teaching me?” He said, but it was in good humor. “Well, let’s give it a shot and hope I don’t step on your toes.” And they did. Backward and forwards in a stilted awkward fashion while Charlie kept looking at their feet, trying to avoid stepping on her as best he could. She’d hoped this would be a bit romantic, but his look of concentration was as handsome. His hands had been cold before, but where they were touching hers, they were warm. The hand on her waist seemed strong, and a little protective. Well, that was it, wasn’t it?

Mattie considered herself a sensible person, and there was no sense in beating around the bush. She wanted to be with Charlie, not as a friend. Not like a roommate. Like...Well. Like a courtship. There had been other boys, of course there had been, but none of them had been quite like Charlie. In fact, there was no one out there quite like Charlie. Maybe it was because he was a little bit older, a little bit wiser, a little bit more sure of himself. Maybe it was something else altogether. Whatever it was, she made up her mind. 

“I meant it when I said we should go on a picnic.” Confused, Charlie looked away from their feet to her face. 

“What?” 

“I think that we should go out.” 

“On a picnic?” 

“Doesn’t have to. We could go see a movie.” He kept staring, the gears inside his brain practically visible as he digested what she just said. 

“We should go out on a date.” They had stopped dancing, but the music was still playing. It was rock and roll, not appropriate for slow dancing. A wave of nervousness washed over her, and she hoped that she hadn’t been misreading the signs she was certain she’d been seeing all night, all week even. 

Surely he had to feel it. She felt it when she sat at the end of his bed, listening to him talk about the station. About how Munro had known his father, and about how he was nervous for the future. She’d felt it when she told him about how she felt like nursing wasn’t enough, and that social work was her passion. 

“That’s what I said.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes.” His face screwed up like when he took a sip of her terrible coca. 

“We come from different worlds, Mattie. I don’t want to let you down.” 

“I know that.” She admitted, and she knew that it was a risk. She knew that to assume that it would be smooth sailing was stupid, and to think that there was no gap between them was nieve. “But we’re here, aren’t we? Together?” 

“I guess we are,” Charlie said, and then nodded. “Alright. How about a Boxing Day picnic?” 

“Sounds lovely.” She breathed and started their dance again. This time, he kept looking at her rather than the ground. “Will you make me apple pie?” 

“I would make you a hundred apple pies.” He replied, “But we don’t have any apples so ANZAC biscuits might have to do.” 

“Then you’ll have to keep taking me on picnics until you do.” 

“Is that a challenge?” 

“It’s a threat.”

“Just this once I’ll resist arresting you.” 

“Charlie?” 

“Hm?” He asked, bringing them to a standstill. 

“We’re under the mistletoe.” He leaned in and kissed her gently on the cheek. “I’m not your mother.” She grumbled, and leaned back in, this time getting a proper kiss. 

When she finally opened her eyes, over Charlie’s shoulder she could see that the rain had stopped.


End file.
